The Scientist
by grazed142
Summary: What if you really could go back to the start? GSR.
1. Chapter 1

_Questions of science, Science and progress, Do not speak as loud as my heart  
Tell me you love me, Come back to haunt me, Oh when I rush to the start  
Runnin' in circles, Chasin' our tails, Comin' back as we are  
Nobody said it was easy  
Aww It's such a shame for us to part  
Nobody said it was easy  
No one ever said it would be so hard  
I'm goin' back to the start_  
_-Coldplay_  
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Gil.

All the letters she had ever written him had started that way. No fancy prelude, no _dear. _Just Gil. It was because, she had explained one day when he asked, she just didn't think it was necessary.

"I like things to be to the point," Sara had said with a shrug, leaning across the kitchen counter to address him. "And besides, I don't like using the word _dear."_

That was true. She would smile that half-smile of hers when he called her _dear _or _honey, _but Grissom was fairly sure he had never heard anything more than a casual _baby _slip out of her mouth. But then, he was hardly complaining. It sent a shiver down his spine when she called him baby.

"I think beginnings are very important," she had continued, popping a grape in her mouth. "They shouldn't have to be muddled up with _dears._"

He had nodded, understanding. Beginnings were always important. They were almost as important as endings. But that day in the kitchen, he didn't truly realize it yet. It wasn't until months later, standing in his office with a mystery letter from Sara, that he truly understood the nature of beginnings and endings.

This letter began with _Gil, _and when he saw the first word he didn't realize, quite yet, that this wasn't a beginning but an end.

All the letters she had ever written him had started that way.

_Gil._


	2. Chapter 2

**June 2007**

"This was the best night of my life," he murmured. "You're so beautiful, you know that? You're my California girl."

Katie snorted and ran her fingers through his hair. Making out with Matthew in the back of his jeep, she felt perfectly happy.

"What do you mean, _was _the best?" she asked.

Matthew shook his head intensely, and Katie found a chill running through her.

"Babe, there's something you need to know."

"Tell me."

"I…I've been here before. We've already done this. I, uh, I went back in time. To be here with you."

Katie moved away from him slightly, and Matthew fought the urge to move closer to her warm freckled skin and her deep eyes.

"If this is a joke, I don't get it."

"No, I'm serious, it's—"

Before he could finish explaining, he felt his body lurching, and then that vibrating sensation so unlike anything he had ever felt before, and then it was five months later standing in his dorm room with the memory of Katie still on his lips.

**December 1 2007**

"Matthew," someone was saying. "Matthew."

He looked down to find his roommate, Brandon, kneeling over Todd, the jock from next door. He was dead. No blood, no gore, but Matthew knew it in a glance. He was dead.

"What happened?" Brandon asked shakily, looking up at him. "You were here, what happened?"

Matthew shook his head.

"No," he muttered, taking two rapid steps backward. "I wasn't here."

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**Dec. 2 2007**

The suspect's eyes were wide and pleading as he stared Grissom down, his mouth set in determination. It was almost as if he weren't lying.

"What, are we time-traveling here? Look, kid, I don't have time for this," Brass said.

Across the interrogation table, Grissom watched closely as the suspect fidgeted, hands shaking and eyes darting from side to side. No older than eighteen, he thought. Finally, Grissom leaned forward and looked straight into the kid's eyes in a manner that he hoped was both authoritative and sympathetic.

"Matthew, you can call me Grissom. I need to know what happened."

"I went back," he murmured, placing two large hands onto the smooth surface of the table. "I swear I went back. I know it sounds crazy, but I was doing it. I went back in time. That's why I wasn't even _there _when Todd died. I only wanted to see my girlfriend, okay?"

Grissom ignored Brass's derisive snort.

"How?"

"That…that vial of liquidI know you guys have it. You searched my entire dorm. "

Grissom nodded.

"Do you know how it works?"

"No. No, I don't. All I know is that it tastes like wine, but it takes you back in time."

Grissom nodded slowly, contemplating the kid's pupils as he leaned forward. He didn't _look _high.

"Why not?" Matthew pleaded. "Why _can't _I go back?"

Before Grissom could open his mouth to formulate a response, a small woman in an expensive-looking suit pushed through the doors, taking quick, angry steps.

"Matthew, don't say anything more," she commanded before turning to Grissom and Brass.

"I need to speak with my client. This can continue at a later date...and I intend to be present."

"Yeah, sure," Brass growled, pushing back his chair.

As the lawyer exited the room, Matthew slouching nervously in her wake, Brass blew out a long breath.

"Well, this is shot to hell. If we can't get a straight answer out of this joker now, what're we going to do now that he's lawyered up? We'll only be able to keep him in custody for so long."

Grissom shook his head but didn't say anything, gazing at the place where Matthew had laid his hands. As he stared, the two handprints grew smaller and smaller, until it was as though they had never been there at all.

After his brief encounter with Matthew, Grissom headed toward the lab. He found Hodges concentrating deeply, the light bouncing off his silver hair. Grissom paused in the doorway and gazed at the small bottle that Hodges was holding.

"How's it coming?"

"Grissom!" Hodges grinned and carefully put down the vial of mystery substance he had been holding.

"So I was thinking…maybe after shift you wanna grab a beer or something? You know, as fellow scientists?"

Grissom frowned.

"Thank you but no, Hodges."

Hodges raised his eyebrows slightly and shrugged.

"Well, all right. I could tell you about my latest invention, you know."  
"_Or _you could tell me right now about what's in that vial, Hodges."

Hodges nodded, tapping out a few keys on his computer.

"Printing the results right now."

Grissom watched detachedly as the white paper slid from the printer. _I went back in time, _Matthew had said. It was by far the strangest alibi he had ever heard. But God, what if it were possible?What would he give to go back? To erase every injury he'd caused Sara, undo every stupid thing he'd ever said. Relive those years when they were both happy? Anything. He would do anything.

"Um, Grissom?"

He looked up quickly.

"What is it?"

Hodges was staring at the paper as though it was not a sheet of paper at all, but a fascinating and horrifying spectacle.

"I, uh, I think maybe the system's down."

Grissom snatched the paper out of his hand.

"What? Why would…"  
He trailed off as he let his eyes focus on the words on the paper.

_No matches found. _

"That's not possible. It's a simple liquid compound; it has to be something identifiable. Print something else, see if it works."

With rare solemnity, Hodges tapped out a few more keys and grabbed the next paper even before Grissom could.

"It works," he said simply. "Which means we've found an unknown compound."

"An unknown compound," Grissom repeated.

_This could be it, _a small voice in his head reminded. _This could be your chance. Take it, take it. _No.

"Log it," he finally said to Hodges, abruptly turning to leave.

"We could name it after you and me," Hodges yelled after him. "Hodgrissium! What do you think?"


	3. Chapter 3

As Grissom sat in the interrogation room waiting for Matthew and his lawyer, he could feel the beginnings of a headache. He thought back to the results Hodges had found on the mystery liquid. No matches found. It was impossible, and it would be naïve to even consider the possibility that it really was something sacred and beyond recognition, rather than a powerful hallucinogen. Besides, he had always thought that traveling back in time would require something far more complicated than a couple sips of wine-colored liquid. As he leaned back in his chair, frustrated, Matthew slouched into the room with his lawyer only a step behind him.

"Hey," muttered Matthew, gazing at Grissom briefly and offering a quick smile before settling into his seat.

"Hello, Matthew," said Grissom. He wasn't really used to being greeted by the suspect in such an amicable fashion.

"Dr. Grissom," said the lawyer curtly, nodding her head. "I understand you have some questions for Matthew."

"Yes," answered Grissom slowly. "Just to understand his situation a little better. Matthew, I understand that you don't know what this substance is? The liquid you take to, uh, travel back in time?"

"No," said Matthew quietly. "But it isn't a drug. One time my roomie had this…this tea stuff, like a drug. And it was _nothing _like the liquid that takes you back in time. This is different. It doesn't affect your body or your mind, it only moves your soul. You know?"

Grissom opened his mouth and then closed it. He didn't know.

"I see. And when you go back in time, where…I mean when…do you go?" He was deviating from the questioning he had planned. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to ask about the killing when he was so fascinated by _this. _Time travel.

"I can't choose," said Matthew. "But that's okay, because it's always some time with just me and Katie."

"Katie?"

"My girlfriend," Matthew explained. "I love her."

Grissom nodded, and suddenly felt energy surge through him in one frightening burst. _I love her. _

"And your girlfriend, is she aware that you travel in time? Does she travel with you?"

Matthew's eyes clouded.

"She's dead," he said bluntly. "That's why I took the stuff in the first place. I wanted to see her again. I needed to."

"I understand," Grissom said, taking care to let no emotion enter his voice. But it was true. He did understand.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Dec. 3 2007 **

Grissom let Hodges yell his name twice before even turning around. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep. He did not want to deal with sycophants.

"Grissom! You're gonna love this!"

Sighing, he walked slowly to where Hodges was standing, with an excited-looking Bobby just behind him.

"Yes, Hodges?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy, but…this mystery substance, I think it really is a time-traveling method."

Grissom felt his stomach do a flip.

"And how did you find this out, Hodges?"

"I gave some to Bobby," he blurted in a rush. "And he time traveled!"

Health hazard. Liability. Corruption of evidence. Utter stupidity.

"Excuse me?" Grissom let his voice lower to a dangerous whisper.

"He volunteered!" Hodges exclaimed, holding up his hands in a submissive motion.

"Bobby?" Grissom asked.

"I did," he said, eyes shining. "And it worked."

"I was here the whole time," Hodges affirmed. "He didn't seize or anything. It was like his soul left his body."

Grissom closed his eyes. He never thought he would hear words like those leave David Hodges' mouth. When he finally felt safe to open his eyes and speak again, his voice was cold.

"We have some logged as evidence, correct?"

"Of course," Hodges said, looking horrified that anyone could suggest otherwise.

"Okay. Give me the rest. I think it needs to be stored somewhere else. And don't ever try that again, either of you."

Hodges sighed and fished the tiny bottle out of his pocket.

The glass was cold and mesmerizing in Grissom's fingers.

"Hodges, could you please tell Catherine that I'm taking the rest of the day off?"

If Hodges suspected anything, he didn't let it show in his face.

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Alone in his bathroom, Grissom sat shakily on the edge of the bathtub. Jesus Christ, he wasn't a desperate nineteen-year-old with a dead girlfriend. This wasn't Romeo and Juliet. But the truth was that Sara called him exactly once a week from San Francisco, sounding sad but determined, and he missed her. So he was a little desperate. Desperate to know how many signs he had missed that she was burning out. Desperate to go back to the first time she was in Las Vegas with him, bright-eyed and excited to be his star student.

_You're not slitting your wrists, for God sake's, _he reminded himself. _Catherine knows where you are. The door's unlocked. Bobby's fine. _

But he couldn't rationalize the fact that he could lose everything doing this. He was risking his job, possibly his life. But hadn't the fear of taking risks lost him Sara?

His fingers still trembled as he raised the small vial to his lips. The single drop that reached his tongue tasted musty and sweet, like nostalgia. And then the cold tile of the bathroom floor was gone beneath his feet and the mad pounding of his heart was slowing to a relaxed beat, and he was smiling in the sun.

**Aug 21 2000**

Clapping, whistling. Snapping pictures. One, two, three, he takes pictures of dummies. Jumped. Pushed. Fell.

"Wouldn't you if you were married to Mrs. Roper?"

The sun is spilling across him like joy. Her voice, behind him, is confident, sweet, pushing excitement and expectations up into his throat. He waits a moment to turn around. He wants the wonder of it to hit him like an eighteen-wheeler when he finally sees her.

"I don't even have to turn around. Sara Sidle."

He doesn't have to turn around, but he does anyway.

It isn't that she is so much younger, really. It's the self-security in her face, the quiet rebellion in her eyes, which surprises him and makes his chest heave. When, he asks himself, when is the last time he has seen that? Lipstick. Tank top. Today is one of those days that her beauty takes hold of him and does not let go, like a wonderful disease, like a religion.

And she says, "It's me."

It's her, but it isn't.

Sun, smiles, tank tops and curly hair. He smiles at her. Today, they are both unmarred by years of sadness and fear and death and overturned Mustangs, red like blood.

He stares at her. Sara, Sara.

This is his favorite beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Dec. 3 2007**

He came back to himself like an adventurer returns home. Slowly, sadly. When the cold tile of his bathroom floor became his reality again, Grissom held up his hands and inspected them. Everything seemed normal. He swallowed. He let out a long breath. It was incredible. Short, but incredible. But how could he not have taken into consideration the length of time he'd be in the past? What controlled the amount of time he stayed? Could he alter it? As he pondered, staring at the vial of dark liquid, he realized that the phone was ringing. Oh.

In one long stride, he tackled his cell and brought it up to his ear.

"Grissom," he breathed into the phone.

"Hey Gil."

He caught his breath. Sara. She was calling early this week.

"Sara. Hi. How…how are you?"

"I'm okay. I just, uh, just felt like I needed to hear your voice. Did you just get back from a crime scene or something? You sound out of breath."

Grissom bit his tongue, unsure what to say.

"Sort of."

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"God, no, Sara."

He could hear her smiling into the phone.

"I had the weirdest dream. About you and me."

"Yeah? Last night?"

"Actually, just a few minutes ago. I fell asleep in my hotel room, and I dreamed about…about the day I came to Vegas. Do you remember that?"

Grissom let himself sink onto the bed.

"I remember."

"It was, uh, a pretty vivid dream. When you turned around and looked at me, in my dream, it was like you were really there with me. It was like…a memory, except I was looking at the whole thing from above. I was looking at our old selves, you know? I was me from today, but I was watching the us from seven years ago. Am I making any sense?"

Grissom closed his eyes and pressed the phone closer to his ear, reveling in the sound of her voice.

"More than you know."

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Matthew ran his thumb over the framed picture of Katie that he kept by his bed. They had been just sixteen, laughing into the camera as Katie's best friend snapped a hasty picture of them about to dive into the town swimming pool. Across the room, Brandon sighed.

"Dude, the police are going to think you did this."

Matthew shook his head as he thought of Todd, sprawled with eyes wide open across the doorway.

"I didn't do it. They won't find evidence to say I did it."

Behind, he could sense Brandon rolling his eyes.

"Well, where were you, man?"  
It had been hard, lying to Brandon. He had long ago decided against sharing his secret, and he usually just hid in a secluded place whenever he wanted to go back in time. That way, nobody could see him and discover that he was only a body without a soul. That way, there were no sounds to bring him back to the present before he was ready to return.

"I was asleep."

It was one of his tried and true excuses. Where were you last night, Matthew? Asleep. Sick. Studying. Somehow, no one ever questioned it.

Brandon belched loudly.

"Dude, I think you need to something fun. Come with us to Jenna's party tonight, huh?"

This time, he was saved from answering by the ring of his cell phone.

"Change your ring tone!" Brandon yelled after him as Matthew exited the dorm and shut the door behind him.

"Mr. Rush," Matthew said nervously into the phone.

"Matthew. I heard about this scandal over the dead boy. They searched your dorm room, am I correct?"

Matthew felt his fingers go numb. Shit. He wasn't ready to deal with this yet.

"Yeah. They, uh, they took it."

The man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat deeply. When he spoke, Matthew could tell he was upset. But as always, he didn't raise his voice.

"They took it? We had a deal, Matthew. You know as well as I do what this means."

Just hearing him say it made Matthew want to cry. He wished suddenly that he could lie to himself and Rush and say that no, he didn't know what this meant.

"I know."

There was a disappointed sigh.

"The investigation. Is it taking place at Las Vegas crime lab?"

"Yes."

"Do you think they know what it is?"

"I told a CSI," Matthew admitted in one burst of guilt. "I was scared, and I was just so tired of lying all the time."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"It's okay, Matthew. Can you tell me his name?"

Matthew froze. Graham? Gilson?

"Grissom," he affirmed finally. "It was Grissom."


	5. Chapter 5

Grissom was sitting in his office when his cell phone rang. His eyes flitted quickly to the display, hoping to see the name _Sara _resting there like an unopened gift. Instead, it only said _Unknown. _

"Gil Grissom."

"Dr. Grissom. I'm relieved I could catch you…my name is Paul Rush."

The voice was deep and soft. Grissom frowned. Rush…didn't sound familiar.

"Okay," he said slowly, hoping it wasn't a grieving family member or a desperate attempt to get a job.

"I believe you're holding something of mine as evidence in a recent crime. Your prime suspect is Matthew Peters, correct?"

Grissom sat up a little straighter in his chair, suddenly wishing he could be recording this call.

"That's correct," he said. "Listen, Mr. Rush, if you'd like to come in…"

"I'm in California," Rush said. "Look, the thing is…you have a vial of liquid that allows you to travel through time. Since Matthew Peters told you this, I'm sure you've tried unsuccessfully to analyze it in your lab. I have a feeling we both know what we're dealing with here."

His breath caught in his throat, and Grissom forced himself to loosen his taut grip on the phone.

"Can you tell me what it is?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Grissom, but no. This stuff…it's dangerous. Not physically, but I think you'll agree when I say that the world isn't ready for this."

"What are you saying?" Grissom asked, instinctively lowering his voice.

There was regret in Rush's sigh.

"Look," he murmured, his deep voice sounding conflicted, "We'll talk later."

At the click of the receiver, Grissom pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a long moment.

"Hey, Griss." Nick ambled into his office, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a sheet of paper.

"I have COD for you," he continued as Grissom fumbled to put away his phone.

"Tell me."

"Hemorrhage to the brain…passed out before his heart stopped beating. He also has several bruises. Looks like he's been in a fight."

Nick's voice was easy and his expression was untroubled, and Grissom found himself envying the man. Standing, he walked around his desk to take the paper from Nick.

"It didn't look like Matthew had been in any fight."

Nick shrugged.

"Maybe he's not your guy."

"Yeah," Grissom muttered distractedly, his left hand floating instinctively to the now-silent phone in his pocket. "Maybe he's not."

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**Dec 4 2007**

The second time he drank the mixture, he wasn't any less nervous. It was like drinking alcohol for the first time, feeling terribly excited and so hesitant. This time, Grissom sat on his bed with his shoes kicked off as he gazed down into the small bottle. He found himself unconsciously calculating the number of exhilarating discoveries he would salvage—he wanted to know how many freckles were on Sara's nose on a given day in a long-past December. Taking a deep breath, he let a single sweet liquid slide down his throat and eased himself into another time.

Fighting off the sluggish grayness that coated his eyes and numbed his body, he found a strange urging to speak creeping up in his lungs.

**May 2004**

"C'mon. I'll take you home." Hands intertwined like vines, forever connected. He wants to meld into her. He wants her to meld into him.

Head hung, eyes down, shoulders sloped. Today, her hair is not curly. It is straight and hangs down, defeated. Today is a lot like tomorrow.

The waiting room is blue. This is what he has always remembered most about tonight, and what he notices most now. A dark blue suffocates him as he grasps her hand. This blue is not just the color of the waiting chairs, or the late evening light. This blue is sad and tired and elusive, and he knows she feels it too.

"Sara?" His voice carries the worry of today, of one year later, of four years later.

"Thanks," she says.

He doesn't let go of her hand as they rise to go. And he didn't know four years ago, but now he knows, he knows that it isn't just the alcohol. It's the sadness that makes her stumble through all this blue, holding tight to his hand. Sadness like cold metal on bare skin. Sadness like piercing rain. Sadness like a great weight. Today, it is crushing her. He wraps one arm around her waist, and it steadies her somewhat.

When they get to his car, he lifts a trembling hand to her hair and pushes a strand behind her eyes. When the fire in her eyes goes out, he always feels cold. Sara.

Today, she lets her forehead fall against his shoulder. She mumbles something into his shirt, her breath burning into his skin. For weeks, he used to wonder what it was that she had said. He thought it was _I cared_ that she whispered to him, her voice muffled by his shirt and a slight slur. But it isn't. It never was.

Today and four years ago, Sara Sidle leans into him and says _I'm scared. _

Today is love and agony. Today is past and future. Whether today is a beginning or an ending he does not know.

**Dec 4 2007**

For the second time, it was an intruding noise that dragged him back to the present. The silence cracked and broke at the screaming of his cell phone. Grissom lunged for it, tripping over his own feet. Was it Sara? Had she relived the same memory in her dream again? He finally snapped open his phone, breathless.

"Grissom."

"Mr. Grissom," the deep voice returned in salutation. "This is Rush."

Grissom felt a chill make its way down his spine.

"Hello," he said slowly. "May I ask what this call is about?"

There was a long pause. "I would like to fly in from California," Rush said in a tone that was almost contemplative, "but I'm afraid that's out of the question."

Grissom narrowed his eyes. Who was this guy?

"If this is about the case…"

"It is," Rush informed him softly. "I need you to send me the vial of liquid you collected when you searched Matthew Peters' dorm room."

Grissom tried not to roll his eyes. Give away evidence? That was even worse than destroying it.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Rush," he said, trying hard to remain confident as he realized that he was already compromising this case. Worse, by ingesting the evidence. The situation was beyond bizarre.

From Rush's scoff, Grissom knew he hadn't been convincing enough.

"I have no doubts you've drunk some of it, Mr. Grissom. Please believe me when I tell you that this is a very serious situation. I'll give you my address…"

"Mr. Rush," Grissom interrupted, feeling suddenly confined in his small office. This was beginning to become overwhelming. "I can't do that. I'm sorry."

"Please, call me back if you change your mind," Rush said. His voice lacked all malignancy, and that was what made Grissom shiver.

"I wish I could tell you that this is the last you'll be hearing of me, but…I can't do that."

Once again, the conversation ended with an abrupt _click _as the line went dead.

Grissom was beginning to understand the nature of a phone call with Paul Rush.


	6. Chapter 6

"Show me your hands, please," Nick commanded calmly, leaning forward over the interrogation table. From behind the window, Grissom cocked his head. As Matthew slowly revealed his hands to the CSI, Grissom could see his long fingers shaking even from several feet away.

"You nervous?" Nick asked, his tone a curious mix of suspicion and congeniality.

"Yeah," Matthew mumbled, his voice cracking.

"Why?"

"I don't know what you're going to find," Matthew explained. This time his voice did not crack, but wavered with what Grissom guessed to be sadness just barely held in check.

As Nick inspected Matthew's fists, Grissom leaned forward so that his nose almost touched the cool glass of the window. It didn't even make sense that he should be pulling so strongly for the innocence of this boy, but here he was holding his breath. Finally, Nick leaned back.

"Okay, we're done. Thanks Matt—you did just fine."

Grissom kept staring through the glass until he heard Nick sigh heavily beside him.

"This kid wasn't in the fight that killed our vic. Hell, I'd bet he hasn't been in any fights in his life. He clams up when I ask him about that weird liquid we found, though. Won't tell where he got it. What's he hiding?"

"I don't think even he knows," Grissom said, pushing the thought of the origin of the liquid into the back of his mind. He wanted so much to know where it came from that he didn't want to know at all. He bit his tongue at the restlessness that was building up inside of him.

"Listen, Nick, I've got to go make a phone call."

"Sure. I'll go talk to Catherine."

Grissom nodded absentmindedly as he exited the room. The halls of the crime lab were getting longer these days, it seemed. Dark and lonely, they stretched before him like a path he could get lost on. Maybe he already had.

Turning the corner to his office quickly, he shut the door and closed the blinds, pulling out his cell phone before he had even taken a seat. He had never told her, but she was number one on his speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Sara? It's Gil."

She chuckled softly. "I have caller ID, baby." She paused for a moment before continuing, this time more seriously. "How are you?"

"I'm okay." That was a lie. He was confused.

"Me too," she agreed forlornly, and he knew she was lying too.

"Listen, Sara. This is going to seem like a strange question, but did you dream last night? Of us?"

"Yes."

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that he knew he had gotten at something.

"It was…that time in the police station, wasn't it? The time I took you home." Grissom hunched forward as he spoke, muscles tensed for reasons he couldn't quite place. They had never really talked about that night.

She was quiet for a long time.

"How did you know?"

He closed his eyes and took the plunge.

"I have something I need to tell you."

**December 2001**

Her eyes are like fireworks, beautiful and angry. He wants to run away, but he also wants to pin her up against her car and kiss her, hard. He doesn't think she'd mind very much. The energy that radiates from her crossed arms, the stubborn, strong way she sets her jaw, is making its way into him.

He knows what he will say today, and he knows it better now than he ever did before. He says it with conviction.

"Sometimes science isn't enough."

**Dec 5 2007**

"So when you came back from class, you found Matthew in the dorm room with a dead body, correct?"

Grissom was interrogating Matthew's dorm mate, trying and failing to keep his left foot from tapping.

"Yeah," grunted Brandon. He was a big guy, and the kind Grissom knew well from teaching seminars. Smart enough, but bored. Indifferent.

"I mean, Matthew's my friend, but I think he did it. He's been acting weird lately."

"How so?"

"I don't know man, just weird. Out of it. It started a few months ago, after his girlfriend died."

Grissom nodded. "Katie, right?"

"Yup," drawled Brandon, stretching obnoxiously. "We all knew each other from high school. Katie. Katie Rush."

Suddenly, Grissom felt every muscle in his body tense.

"Rush?"

"Yeah," Brandon said. "It was just she and her dad. After she died, he went back to California."

His foot stopped tapping.

"Do you remember what her father's name was?"

Brandon pursed his lips. "I think it was Paul."

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Grissom's head was rushing as he closed the door of his office. He had a connection between his murder suspect and the mysterious Paul Rush. A dangerous connection. He hesitated before picking up his cell phone. Then, he found the number labeled _Unknown _and dialed. Grissom counted his breaths. On the second exhale, Paul Rush picked up the phone.

"Rush," said the smooth voice.

"This is Gil Grissom. I understand you have an affiliation with Matthew Peters. Your daughter was his girlfriend."

"Yes," said Rush. For the first time since Grissom had first heard him, his voice sounded rough.

"Mr. Rush, I think I should go ahead and tell you that this crime lab cannot destroy or give away evidence, and I think its best for yourself and Matthew if you stay out of this investigation."

"Have you ever had someone you loved taken from you, Dr. Grissom?"

Grissom swallowed. He closed his eyes as he thought of the one experience he would never want to return to. The dread, the fear, the hope. The hope was the worst. It was agonizing.

"Why?"

"Because if you have," Rush went on quietly, "you know that you would do anything to get them back. Even for just a few moments." His voice was conspiratorial, and Grissom couldn't help but feel like Rush could read his mind through the phone lines.

"Mr. Rush…"

"I will do anything, Dr. Grissom. Anything for that vial."

Grissom paused. This could be a huge set up. And compromising evidence, after all, was better than giving it away to strange men. He had gotten himself into this deliberately, and he wasn't going to give it all away now. He needed this. He wanted this.

"What do _you _do with this liquid, Mr. Rush?" Grissom asked, taking care to make his voice sound nonchalant, even condescending. "Do you change the things in your past so that it alters the present?"

Rush laughed. It was a sound like falling rain.

"Your hope has blinded you, don't you agree? I assure you that if changing the past altered the present, I would have no need at all for this liquid. Neither would you, I assume. I'm surprised you haven't yet learned, such a scientist as you are."

Grissom was silent.

"It's only a window," Rush continued gently. "Not a door."

His life was full of windows. Sometimes it seemed like Grissom was born to be an observer.

"Will this help persuade you to send me the liquid?" Rush asked.

"I can't. I'm sorry," Grissom said. The carefully practiced nonchalance had left his voice like helium from a balloon. "Again, if you'd come in to the lab..."

"Well," Rush sighed, "I guess that's the way it goes. Sometimes one has to fight fire with fire. Don't you agree, Dr. Grissom?"

The line went dead before Grissom could respond.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **thanks so much to anybody that reviewed. I really appreciate it. This isn't really going in the direction I had in mind, but...hopefully it'll turn out ok anyway.

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**Dec 6 2007**

She reminded me of home. That, I think, was my initial impression. Not a movie-star beauty. But she was certainly beautiful nonetheless. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and there was a wisdom and a mystery in the way she stared out the window that surprised me. She reminded me of my wife, I suppose. I found out a little about her before I ended up in the same café with her, obviously. I am not a stalker, but I am observant, after all. It comes with the job. And I am also desperate. I don't deny that. So when I watched her from afar in that little restaurant, I watched closely. I didn't want to hurt her. I didn't want to hurt either of them. Fortunately, my plan, as it turned out, ended up more perfect than I could have hoped. Sometimes, people just get lucky. The way it happened was this: her cell phone rang, and she looked at the caller ID for a long moment, smiling, before bringing it to her ear.

"Hey Gil."

Gilbert Grissom. I knew, of course, that they were together. I have my sources. Still, the phone call was a needed confirmation. The success of my investigation would have made me smile, but I was already feeling guilty. I was drowning more innocent people in this ocean of deceit and grief that I had brought upon myself.

A short pause as he said something. Her smile faded and was replaced by curiosity.

"How did you know?"

Pause.

"You knew what I dreamed. Again. Gil, what's going on?"

Longer pause, this time only interrupted by pensive _hmms _and long breaths of confusion and surprise. But I knew she'd believe it eventually.

"Time." She lowered her voice. "You're telling me you traveled…. through time. Are you okay? You haven't been drinking, have you?"

Very long pause.

"Okay."

I imagine he thought she was only humoring him.

"No, I mean it. You knew my dreams, Gil. When the evidence changes, so must the theory, right?"

Yes, this Sara Sidle was very much like my wife. Even like my daughter, maybe.

"I love you," she said. Now her voice was soft.

"No, no, I understand. Go work on your case."

After she hung up the phone, she looked at it for quite a while. A few minutes. Then she picked up her purse and headed towards the bathroom. It isn't like me, spontaneity, but I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by. I hailed the waitress, paid for her check. This was a Sunday, the after-church crowd. The café was pretty chaotic, so I felt fairly secure in slipping a drop from my vial into her drink. Even so diluted, I have learned that this substance is a potent drug. This drop, it was my last. I had been saving it.

When she came back, I waited for her to take a single sip. She closed her eyes, put one hand to her forehead. My work was half-finished. Well-dressed, I was perfectly passable as a brother, an uncle perhaps. This used to scare me, how easily a person can be snatched from the busiest of places. Now, I am too numbed to care. I have learned that there are far more frightening things. As I walked her out of the café, no one turned a head. When I hailed a cab, the driver gave me a single, ambivalent raised eyebrow. His gaze was on the woman, this Sara Sidle, vacant in my arms.

"She okay?"

I told him she had narcolepsy.

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**January 2007**

The layout room. He holds the UV light in one hand, cold even though the room is warm. Shines it on three pictures of dolls from the miniatures. They stare up at him with threatening, beseeching eyes. Words appear over their faces, so carefully planned and brilliantly executed it chills him to the bone. You Were Wrong, it says. Each word is a punch to the stomach. You were wrong.

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**Dec 6 2007**

I was out of breath by the time I let myself fall into my old easy chair. She was actually quite light, but I was old. I was nervous. Sara Sidle's cell phone, which of course I had procured, was ringing. The ID said _Gil. _This nickname made me feel I was delving into private lives that were not mine to see. Such a feeling was fairly accurate, I suppose. I picked it up.

"Hello?" I wondered if he was taping the phone call. It didn't particularly matter to me.

"Rush." He practically barked my name. I could tell this Grissom was a mild-mannered man, a good man. I could tell he loved Sara Sidle from the fear in his voice.

"Where is she?"

I turned my head to where Sara Sidle was lying on my couch, eyes closed. The memory she was in seemed to be a bad one, which surprised me. That had never happened to me. Every few minutes, she would let out a small whimper.

"I don't want to worry you, Dr. Grissom. I gave her a drop of the liquid and took her to my summer house. I'm not going to hurt her, and I realize it's unforgivable of me to use a human being as a bargaining tool. I did what I had to do, and I'm sorry."

"I'll give you the vial. Just tell me where you are."

"I own a house on a small island just off the coast of California. Actually, I own the island itself. Isolated, you know. Only way to get here is by boat. I've sent the map to your email account at work already."

There was a low growl on the other end.

"I'll be there with backup. And if you're sending me down the wrong trail…"

"I'm not," I said quickly. There was still a smart part of me that didn't want to be thought of as a monster.

"I can promise you I'm not."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Happy New Year's! The book referenced in here is "On Death and Dying" by Elisabeth Kubler Ross. As far as I know, she pretty much invented the 5 stages of dying concept (denial, anger, bargaining, sorrow, acceptance)

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I was reading when she awoke. I already knew that she was a CSI, and CSIs were well-trained for this sort of situation. Madmen and all that. Still, her composure impressed me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she stirred to take in her situation. I knew what she was doing. Looking for any weapons or danger. Sizing me up, addressing the risk. I steeled myself to be interrogated cautiously, as though this were a sort of hostage situation.

"You're a bastard," she said. Her voice was raw and tired, nothing like it had been in the café.

"I'm Paul Rush," I said.

"Yeah, I could guess that." She sounded annoyed at the suggestion that there would be any reason for her not to know my name.

I wiped my sweaty hands against my trousers. That tended to happen when I was nervous.

"I'd just like you to know that I'm not going to hurt you in any way," I said.

Sara Sidle was not afraid of me. I knew that from the beginning. But I also knew that she was afraid of something. I have never been good at comforting people, but I tried to make this promise sound as authentic as I felt it to be. She only shook her head slightly. One tear made a glistening trail down her cheek until she swiped it away. The entire situation had caught me off-guard. I did not know how much she knew, or whether she believed anything I had said. It somehow relieved me that she knew my name, and that she was comfortable enough to be angry at me. In any case, we were both stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. I picked up my book again.

Approximately twenty minutes later, Sara Sidle said, "Elisabeth Kübler-Ross."

I lowered my book and peered at her. The late-afternoon sun made her hair glow in an ethereal type of way. She nodded her head curtly at my book.

"On Death and Dying."

"It's a wise book," I said, and fingered a dog-eared corner. "I'm on bargaining."

Sara Sidle snorted mirthlessly and met my eyes with reckless boldness. "You seem to be very good at bargaining."

How could I deny it?

"I'm sorry."

Sara Sidle rolled her eyes, and it struck me that she was quite fascinating. She commanded my attention without even trying.

"This is the second time I've been kidnapped in three months," she said.

I didn't know what to say to that.

"That is why I'm here, isn't it? As a bargaining chip? Grissom comes with the…the stuff, and you let me go. Right?"

For the first time, she let a bit of fear into her voice.

"Of course."

"So. Your own private island." She met my eyes straight on again as I scavenged through my mental inventory for some memory of exactly when she could have found out so much about me. I found nothing.

"How did you know?"

"I was awake when you called Gi—Grissom," she said. "Your drug wore off." Her voice was breathy and only a little bitter, as though we were having a conversation over coffee.

I cringed. I found the word _drug _degrading and frightening.

"I'm sorry if it was unpleasant. I thought it would be the most painless way of…you know….getting you here."

Sara Sidle shrugged, her shoulders lifting and falling with unusual grace.

"I've had worse."

Her pain was tangible. This heartbreak was what made Sara Sidle so mysterious, I decided. I did not want to feel her pain so acutely. I tried an attempt at camaraderie.

"I would offer you coffee…"

"…but you won't, because you know I won't take it," she finished, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear with long fingers.

"My approximation is that Gilbert Grissom will be here in one to two hours," I told her then, gazing at her for a moment longer before turning back to my book. I felt as though I had no right to even look at her. It was looking into the window of a stranger's home. But Sara Sidle was unafraid to look into my home.

"So did that book help you accept your daughter's death, or not?" I knew from her tone that she was still angry, but also curious. She knew that we were a little alike, she and I.

"If it had, I suppose you wouldn't be here."

Sara Sidle nodded thoughtfully, contemplating my strange addiction with a baffling mixture of sorrow and objectivity.

"How many times have you read it, then?"

"I go through the stages of death with the changing of the seasons," I said.

The sun was slipping below the ocean.

"They're going to arrest you for this," Sara Sidle said. There were tears in her words. "And how do you know they'll even give you that vial?"

"Does your Gilbert Grissom keep his word?" I asked. I knew her answer would reassure both of us, even though she was quiet for a long time after this question.

"Yes," she said finally. "Always."

I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth of that word. Always.


	9. Chapter 9

I am a scientist. This is something that Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle never knew. Until I retired, I was a CSI myself, and I was quite respected. Murders, mysteries, I solved them all. I was considered ingenious in the subjects of physics and chemistry. Now, I rarely think of my days as a CSI. My fall from grace was very hard.

My daughter is dead. This is enough to explain all that I have done, all that I am. I am not condoning or rationalizing my actions. I am only saying I gave my whole heart and my whole purpose to my daughter the moment she first entered the world. I was a good father. We spent a lot of time together, Katie and I. Especially after her mother, and my wife, died. I would not like to delve too deeply into this, but I will say that I loved her achingly. And after she was gone, I could see her in Katie's eyes.

Katie and I kicked soccer balls and watched TV and argued and laughed and even played piano duets. When she began to date Matthew, she introduced him to me and slowly I got to know him. Matthew is a good boy, and I always knew with certainty that he never killed that person in his dorm room. Matthew, my poor friend, is as much of a ghost of a man as I am. But he used to be quite the entertainer. And he loved my daughter.

Katie died in a car accident months and months ago on a day that seems like yesterday. Her death was unwarranted, surprising, and clichéd. Just another kid killed at the hands of a drunk driver. Out of the stages of death, the one I could never truly reach was acceptance. I am the one that found a way to go back. The manner in which I did this is not important because what I found was too great and too terrible to be revealed. The vials of liquid, which I never named, were mine. I gave some to Matthew and kept some for myself. Matthew and I had a kind of deal, and it tore us both to pieces. The aftermath of such a substance, so powerful as to take you to a different time but not powerful enough to change the course of history, will haunt you forever. The memories I returned to were always, always Katie. I used to lie awake nights and wonder which was worse, her absence or her ghosts.

Even now, I am not happy. I live with my ghosts every day. But at least I was able to consciously choose such a life, a life less painful than being alone. I know that my life after Katie has looked disturbingly pathetic to outsiders. But at least I have found my acceptance. I found it that night on the boat, with chaos and yelling all around me. Except for Sara Sidle. She was silent as I closed my eyes. I know I hurt her and scared her badly, but I also know that she understood. As her vision blurred and disappeared and gave way to a bright whiteness, it was not my life that flashed before me. It was denial, anger, bargaining, sorrow, acceptance.

Acceptance.

Acceptance.

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**Dec 6 2007**

His heart ached. It wasn't really fear or worry or grief that made tears fall down Grissom's face as he gazed down at the ocean, though it was probably partly all three. Mostly, it was a realization, striking and poignant, that caused the great pain in his heart. Sara was his favorite person. He loved her and his memories were full of her, happy and sad and smiling and crying and brave and sexy and brilliant and profound. And she loved him, too. They were powerless to stop, even though she was taken from him time and time again at the hands of men and women and ghosts. And the very reason that they were separated was that he could not stop loving her. So, as detectives and policemen bustled around him on the small boat that was driving at top speed toward a mystery island, Grissom let his tears fall into the cold and salty Pacific Ocean, where they became invisible and insignificant. This, he told himself, this like all other things will pass. Gil Grissom's beginnings and endings were full of Sara.

"Grissom," said a voice at his side. Brass stood tall in his bulletproof vest, worry dancing across dark eyes.

"Let's do this, buddy."

Land was nearing with frightening speed, and a tall house was becoming visible on the tiny island.

Grissom nodded. He watched as another boat came into sight, tied to the dock beside the house. Paul Rush's boat. She was here.

"We've got guys covering all the doors, right?"

"Yep," growled Brass. He was fingering his gun.

The boat finally lurched to a stop, and policemen swarmed the old house like ants. Brass nodded his head with surprising aggression.

"Let's go."

Together, they stepped off the boat and walked up to the front door. Grissom's heart beat like a drum in his ears. His tongue was like a dry sponge. Then Brass knocked on the door.

"Paul Rush! Open the door!" he yelled.

And he opened the door. He looked placid, apologetic, neighborly.

He only said, "Sara Sidle is in the living room."

Then Grissom was running, yelling her name without even realizing it. He ran until he ran into Sara, wide-eyed and shaking. She put her hands on his chest in a comforting way.

"Gil," she said. "It's okay. I'm fine. I'm right here."

He pulled her into him, unsurprised to find that her warmth assuaged the ache in his heart.

"Sara. I'm so sorry." And he was. This, all of it, was his fault. His guilt was vast and choking, and he never expected it to be lifted, mostly, by the seven words that Sara said softly into his jacket.

"I would have done the same thing."


	10. Chapter 10

Grissom didn't let Brass handcuff Rush until he gave him the bottle of dark liquid, first looking around to make sure none of the police saw the exchange. He had felt nefarious and exposed. Rush had smiled sadly, and said something about how he had known Grissom was a man of his word. Then he had slipped the bottle into his pockets and held out his wrists to the policeman. Grissom could feel Sara cringe at the metallic clink of the handcuffs snapping shut.

Now, Grissom sat in the darkness and relished the cold Pacific wind that bit at his cheeks and his nose as the boat raced back to the California coast. Beside him, Sara sat leaning against his shoulder, her eyes closed. She hadn't let go of his hand, or spoken, since they'd left the house. Suddenly, Paul Rush's soft sad voice cut through the darkness from where he was sitting, two policemen at his sides.

"Is there a bathroom in this boat?"

Sara opened her eyes but leaned further into Grissom.

"I think you can wait, pal," Brass snapped.

"Let him go," Sara said then. Even Grissom could barely hear her over the wind and the water. "He's not going to hurt anyone."

Brass looked at Grissom. An icy feeling creeping up deep inside him, he nodded slowly.

"Give him five minutes," Brass told the policemen. "And make sure there's nowhere for him to escape."

There was a bustling of movement as Rush was led toward the small indoor stall, and Grissom began to count. One minute, and Sara leaned her head on his shoulder. Four minutes, and he realized that the warmth seeping onto his skin was her tears. Seven minutes, and the police were yelling and knocking on the bathroom door.

"Rush! Open this door!"

Grissom swallowed. Nausea crept in. The yellow light from underneath the bathroom door shined eerily.

Then the police beat down the door and the yellow light poured out like blood and Rush was lying on the floor, shaking, with eyes open. Sara leapt up and ran towards it all. Grissom followed her without realizing he had moved at all. Brass checked Rush's pulse. Police yelled orders.

"He's seizing!" Sara was saying, urgently.

"What the fuck did he do in that bathroom?" one of them was asking.

Then Rush was still.

"Weak pulse," Brass was saying. "What the hell happened here?"

But Sara was staring at something on the floor. Grissom followed her gaze, found the glass vial. The light that was still shining from the bathroom hit its surface and broke into a million pieces. The bottle was empty.

"He took it all," Grissom said, breathing hard. He was thinking about the effects of a single drop, and speaking to no one in particular. No one heard him. Sara swayed beside him.

"I think I'm going to pass out," she muttered.

And she did.

He caught her and lowered them both to the ground and held her there. And Brass noticed and said, "Oh Jesus," and gave Grissom his jacket to wrap around Sara's shoulders.

When she woke up only a quarter of an hour later, Grissom could feel her begin to shiver in his arms through her two jackets. The boat was nearing the coast and they were no longer sitting on the ground where she had fallen. Brass had turned out the light. Grissom ran his thumb over her cold cheek, and she caught his hand and held it between both of hers. Neither of them said anything, and they stayed like that until the ghostly, dancing spots of light in the distance became just light bulbs shining dully through nearby windows in motels and restaurants that lined the beach.

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That night they rented a hotel room. It had unthreatening, oatmeal-colored walls and burgundy carpet. Grissom sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Sara strip off one jacket, and then the next. She was still shivering, but only a little. He thought of another hotel room, another day. They had been investigating a crime scene, "murder central", and Sara had run through a disgusting list of reasons why not to stay in hotel rooms. Semen, other people's DNA, that sort of thing. That was seven years ago.

"Are you going to lose your job?" Sara asked suddenly, folding the jackets and setting them on the dresser.

"No," Grissom answered softly. "I only told Brass about…the deal. Brass told everyone else it was just an act targeted at me for no reason. It'll blow over."

She came and sat next to him. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her gaze honest and inquisitive.

"What was it like? Going back into your memories."

"They couldn't have ever been as good as being with you in the present," he said.

A slow smile crept across her weary face.

"Sara…this isn't the end, is it? Of us?" He wondered what he would possibly do if she said yes.

"I don't think that's possible." She fixed him with a desperate grin, tears pooling in her eyes.

They were quiet for a while.

"It's been a long year," Sara said finally.

He put an arm around her and knew that they were both grieving for things that were intangible, inexplicable. He thought of snow.

"If you could go back and change things, would you?" he asked quietly.

After a few moments, Sara shook her head.

"No. Everything that happened, it wasn't all for nothing, you know? Things just are…the way they are."

Grissom nodded. A sudden chill ran through him as he realized that changing the past would have meant changing _her. _Changing _them._

"But if I had never messed with that liquid…"

"Don't," Sara interrupted him softly, turning her head so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

"You'll only make yourself dizzy, running in circles."

Seven years. Seven years of changes. Seven years of looking behind him only to find that everything he knew, bad and good, fell away like leaves from a tree. Seven years of having to learn that he could never go back and change the things he had done wrong. Seven years of subtle and unsubtle expressions of _I love you_. That was their only constant. He leaned down to kiss Sara on the lips, and found that constant once again. All at once, he was seeing the future and living the present and going back to the start.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This ending is a bit corny, but I really don't know how to do endings. So this will have to suffice. ;) Thanks soo much for all the reviews...they're really encouraging. 

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**Dec 30**

"Case closed," Nick said proudly, slapping his hands together.

"Yeah?" asked Grissom, smiling. It relieved him immensely to know that Matthew hadn't been the perp.

"Yeah. Matthew's roommate Brandon has a riff with Todd the jock, gets into a fight with him, slams him into a wall a little too hard. When he ends up dead, the dude drags him up to the dorm room and pretends he doesn't know anything about it, because Matthew's out of it on…that drug. Whatever that was."

Grissom nodded, furrowing his eyebrows. "Whatever that was. Is Matthew still here?"

Nick shrugged. "Maybe. He might've left already."

Grissom nodded and quickened his pace past Nick toward the room where Matthew was being cleared. He found him shrugging on a stylishly ragged coat.

"Hey. Matthew."

Matthew turned around, looking surprised to see Grissom.

"Hi," he said, taking Grissom's hand and shaking it lightly.

"I hear you're free to go."

"Yeah," Matthew said, smiling nervously.

"I'm glad to hear it," Grissom told him. He looked around the empty hallways before continuing. "Are you…all right? After all that happened?"

Matthew sighed, running one hand through floppy brown bangs.

"I think I am. I miss seeing Katie. But since she's been gone…I mean, totally gone…"

Here he paused to look pointedly at Grissom. He knew that Matthew was talking about the time travel that they had both once reveled in, Grissom more briefly than Matthew.

"…now that she's totally gone, I can finally let myself grieve, you know? I can finally let myself accept this."

"That's great, Matthew."

Matthew smiled slightly. "Look, Dr. Grissom…can you tell me what happened to Katie's dad? Paul Rush?"

Grissom reached up to adjust his glasses.

"Paul Rush is in the hospital, Matthew. He'll probably be there for, uh, some time. The doctors say that he's in a coma."

Grissom's eyes met Matthew's, and he knew that this would be their shared secret.

"Do you think he sees her every day?" Matthew whispered.

"I do," Grissom said. "I think he sees her every day."

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When he got home, Sara was scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. She was sitting on the couch in a tank top and jeans, her hair slightly curly and held back sloppily in a ponytail. Grissom had to pretend that the sight of her didn't make him catch his breath.

"How's the novel coming?" he asked.

Sara snorted, her pencil never pausing.

"You know I hate it when you call it a novel."

"Well, whatever it is, it's going to be great," he said, walking over to sit beside her on the couch. She had just received a grant to research and write about the psychology of kidnappers and the study of hostage negotiation.

"But," Sara continued, gazing at her notes pensively with the pencil resting against her mouth, "thinking about it as a whole, I'm not sure where I want to put my most important points, you know? Do I catch the reader's attention at the beginning with something striking, or do I put it at the end and leave a lasting impression?" She parted her lips and chewed on the pencil's eraser, just a little. It drove him crazy when she did that.

"So what do you think, baby? You're the scientist. Which are more important, beginnings or endings?"

Trying to keep his expression professional, Grissom brought his hand up to play with a stray curl behind her ear as he gazed at her notes. When he finally looked back up at Sara, she was smiling her impish half-smile.

"Beginnings," he said. "I think beginnings."


End file.
